...or maybe not

Okay, I lied.

Due to the lengthy processes involved with putting a stamp on a piece of paper (????), it seems Miss H and I will be delayed further in our venture to Korea. Our FBI background checks still haven't been returned, and further research has told us that an additional FOUR WEEKS will be required to put an Apostille on said background check. In the meantime, the Federal Bureau of Investigation must send us our background checks via snail mail, and then we must send them to the Department of State, wait the requisite month and THEN send all our prepared documents to our recruiter in K-Land. In addition, we are still waiting for our diplomas to be notarized by our respective institutions, and to have Apostilles put on THEM by the Secretaries of State of North Dakota and Illinois.

Jeeeeeeeeeeeez.

The upshot of all this is that we won't make the deadline for the marvelous job we'd been hoping to snag, the one which begins on September 12. At this rate, we won't get over to SoKo until mid-October.

Rats.

There are definite fringe benefits to staying, Miss H has pointed out. More time to go camping, enjoy Disneyland, visit San Diego, and all the other farewell things we were planning to do. We can also have a cocktail party for my birthday and (potentially) Halloween.

But it still annoys me. The only upside is that my friends from England who are going back won't be there any sooner than I will. Their governments are giving them problems as well.

"That's what governments are for, get in a man's way."
                                                                                              — Malcolm Reynolds, Firefly

the off-season (or, that's the way uh-huh uh-huh I like it)

Time for a football update! Ladies, shield your eyes.

First I'd like to point out that this is a LIVE blog post. I'm sitting here typing in front of the TV. San Diego is playing Denver. It's half time. Score is 21-7, Chargers' favor.

Now, I'd like to start off by giving you San Diego's current season standings. They're 5-5. For the uninitiated, that means that SD has lost five games and won five games so far, meaning their win-loss ratio is 50%.

By ordinary standards, that would be abysmal.

By the 2010 National Football League's standards, that's actually about average.

This is a weird season, folks. It's all topsy-turvy. Teams which have customarily been terrible have been kicking big-name teams' butts. Teams which previously were best in the nation have been...well, for lack of a better term, gargling balls. (Dallas anyone?)

Yeah, let's take Dallas. They're 3-7. Three wins, seven losses. Two of those wins were garnered just in the last couple of weeks. For the first months of the season the Cowboys racked up an impressive string of losses. Not that I took pleasure in any of it, of course (yeah, right, I was doing handsprings in the living room), but it was still a surprise. Dallas is unofficially known as "America's team." They are/were THE big name in football, one of the most recognizable teams, and their record was nothing short of stellar. Oh, sure, they've had off-seasons before. But this takes the cake.

Or look at the Vikings. Minnesota's usually done pretty well. They've never won a Super Bowl, but they've been to several. (Like Buffalo, only, you know, not as embarrassing.) But this season they're in the same boat as Dallas, 3-7, undergoing a pathetic collapse. In my humble opinion, Brett Favre should've called it good when he retired (for the first time) in 2008. He should've gone out on a high note. He should've ridden his legendary career with the Green Bay Packers into comfortable old age. He shouldn't have tried to relive his glory days. He shouldn't have vacillated. He shouldn't have signed with the Jets, and then the Vikings. He should've just quit when he was ahead. But no. He stayed in. And now he's showing his age. Sunday's disgraceful 31-3 defeat against Green Bay (oh, the irony) has sealed coach Brad Childress's fate, and almost certainly Favre's as well. It's almost painful to watch.

On the other hand...

Baltimore has been kicking ass this season, defeating such doughty opponents as Miami, New York (the Giants and the Jets), and Pittsburgh. Pittsburgh, for crying out loud! What's the world coming to? The Ravens are ordinarily a B-team at best, but John Harbaugh has set them against comers, despite some minor dust-ups in their offensive line. We'll see how they do in the coming weeks, when they face Tampa Bay, Houston and Pittsburgh (again).

Speaking of kicking ass...

I just wanted to let you know that, as of now (four minutes into the third quarter, 7:35 p.m. Western Daylight Savings Time), the score is 28-7, San Diego's favor. YES!!! Eat that, Denver!

This is what I like to see. San Diego playing like they mean it. It's not a shutout, but we're not choking or dropping the ball or turning over incessantly, either. I like the way the Chargers are playing tonight. The defensive line has been on the ball (literally), we've made a sack or two, and we had a respectable turnover in the first half. On the offensive side of things, Darren Sproles is working his usual magic, the running backs are finding all the holes, the receivers are actually catching the ball, and Phillip Rivers's passes are (as usual) dead-on.

This is one of the NFL's biggest mysteries, in fact. Rivers has the most passing yards of any QB in the league, with nearly 3,000. (Denver's Kyle Orton is right behind him.) Rivers's career passer rating is 96.9, number one of all time. Nobody can figure out how San Diego can possibly be losing games when Rivers is throwing so many deep passes on-target...least of all me.

Indeed, the only black spot on tonight's ledger is the fact that San Diego is, as has previously been mentioned, 5-5.

If we win tonight, we'll be tied for second in the division (with Oakland, BOOOOOOO). If we lose...we're in last place.

'Course, it doesn't look like we'll be losing. I don't know what Denver's problem is, but they're dropping balls and running head-on into our defensive line. That makes me happy, of course, but this is something nobody expected to see from the Broncos, who have traditionally done well. It's a balmy 58 degrees at Qualcomm Stadium right now, so it's not like Denver can blame the weather.

There's six games left: Indianapolis, Oakland (BOOOOOOO), Kansas City, San Francisco, Cincinnati, and Denver again. Let's see how we do. All we have to do is come out top in the division (AFC West). To do that, we've got to beat Denver tonight (signs point to yes) and Kansas City in Week 14. It's a home game, so I'm fairly confident. We (ahem) lost to the Chiefs both in the preseason and in Week 1, but...let's not talk about that right now.

I can dream of a Super Bowl, can't I?

P.S. It's the fourth quarter now and Rivers just threw a beautiful touchdown pass to Jacob Hester. Score's now 35-7. Marvelous, folks. That's the way (uh-huh uh-huh) I like it.

football updates

I remember I said something a while back about how I was going to keep better track of football season this year, and even blog about it. I didn't do so well. Apart from a maudlin post about how my beloved San Diego has lost one of its Holy Offensive Trinity (LaDainian Tomlinson) I haven't said much.

Preseason recap: I don't pay much attention to preseason games, usually, because they're usually on when I'm doing something important, and let's face it, the preseason don't count for much anyway. It wouldn't have done me much good to watch the Chargers' preseason games anyway, because they SUCKED. Except for a slight win against Chicago at home (25-10), we lost to everyone else: Dallas (ouch), New Orleans (well, okay), and San Francisco (are you effing KIDDING me?!).

Thankfully, the pain of preseason didn't last that long, and after Norv Turner knocked a bit of sense into the Bolts, the regular season started and I began to sit up and take notice. Which leads us to...

The season so far: The first game was September 13, against the Chiefs at Kansas City. I didn't see it, because Dad is a Dolphins fan and I believe their game was on at the same time, and Dad had sovereignty over the remote control. It was an appreciably close game (14-21), but still a loss. Rivers threw for 298 passing yards, which I like to see, but surprisingly Darren Sproles didn't take the record for rushing. That went to Ryan Mathews, one of the rookies we picked up this summer, currently signed to a five year contract. Though described as "accident-prone" in college (and in fact, he's already bunged up his ankle this season) he still remains a gleam of hope in Tomlinson's wake.

Second game was September 19, at home against Jacksonville. Puh-leez. It was a 38-13 win, and I'm surprised the Jaguars got that much. I didn't catch much of this game, either; I believe Heather and I were out doing stuff (like buying six used books for $10, awesome-sauce). Rivers topped himself with 334 passing yards, but the real surprise was Nick Kaeding: all five kicks he made that day (four extra points and one 41-yard field goal) were good. Heck, I was surprised that Kaeding was even still on the flipping team. This was the same man who bungled no less than three field goal attempts in the last round of the playoffs back in February, and cost San Diego their shot at the Super Bowl. I felt certain the S.D.P.D. would find Kaeding's mutilated body hanging from the tip of Ocean Beach Pier by mid-March. I imagine Coach Turner has kidnapped Kaeding's family and is holding them at an undisclosed location, releasing one of them every time Kaeding gets it between the uprights.

The third game was another loss. Despite Rivers's stellar 455 passing yards and Gates's 109 receiving (I swear, that man is a ball magnet...he can catch anything), the final score was 27-20 at the Seattle's Qwest Field. My beloved Bolts went down swinging, though. Linebacker Brandon Siler sacked Seahawk QB Matt Hasselbeck in the end zone and scored us a safety in the third quarter; and in the fourth quarter, Rivers and Gates made a respectable nine-play, 65-yard drive to a touchdown in less than five minutes.

Next in line are the Arizona Cardinals, at home on October 3. I'm going to be working, unfortunately, but maybe I can convince Mack to let me turn the game on. Then I can watch it over my right shoulder as I scrub the pots and pans. (Mack usually keeps the TV on Fox anyway.) I don't know much about Arizona, players, stats, what have you, so I'm drawing a blank as far as pregame predictions are concerned. But I have a feeling it's going to be a good one. These are two decent teams, we're on home turf, and I don't hate the guts of the opposing team for a change (in fact, I have something of a soft spot for Arizona now, due to certain laws they've passed regarding illegal immigration).

Still, I'm no traitor. You know who I'll be supporting. The Cardinals are going to get thunderstruck.

inspired by Smithy

There are a lot of people I could talk about in terms of inspiration. Indiana Jones, for one. Jeez, I've wanted to be that guy ever since I was twelve. H.G. Wells, for another. Writing in the late nineteenth century, he managed to predict the invention of airplanes, lasers, space flight, space-time manipulation, and bio-weapons, and do a damn creepy job of it.

But right now I'd like to talk about my friend Smithy, over at smithyblogs. Now there's an inspiring man for you. He always says what he thinks, and means it. He doesn't seem to give a rat's ass about naysayers or detractors. He just up and opines. I like to think I'm the same way, but I'm not. I'm a weasel. Smithy's the genuine article, and that's a woefully rare thing in this day and age. Smithy siphons this exceptional quality into an equally inspiring medium: sports rants. Being a Brit, Smithy was born and naturalized a soccer football nut from Day 1. Being from Manchester...well, presumably you've heard of the legendary Manchester United football team. They're the only one that most Americans have ever even heard of. (What other teams are there? What, like, maybe Arsenal?)

So let's just say that football (meaning soccer) is a subject near and dear to Smithy's heart. And he expostulates upon it with passion, verve and vehemence. Check out his latest update, a rundown of the results of the predictions he made a few weeks ago, a tirade against Chelsea, a word about the British election, and the Seoul Friendship Festival, which, from Smithy's description, sounds like the only celebration in South Korea during which English sausages may be had in profusion. I heartily enjoy standing before Smithy's soapbox and listening to his match breakdowns, season reports, and sportsman's proselytizing. Not only are they entertaining and often hilarious, but they provide a valuable sort of secondhand education for me. I'm learning that, yes, there are other teams in England besides Man U and Arsenal. Smithy drops a lot of names that I have to run to Wikipedia to look up. It's educational, both in regards to the sport itself and my own cultural awareness. Or lack thereof.

So I've decided, as any upstanding and humble apostle would, to copy him. I'm going to ape Smithy. I'm starting up a new installment on this here blog (title to be announced), concerning what's happening with my team, predictions for future games, how the season's shaping up, players, enemy teams, breakdowns, tirades, commiseration, the works. (I apologize to any women in the audience whom I may be turning off.)

Trouble is, we haven't really got a soccer league in this country. Well, okay, yeah, we do. Major League Soccer. But you never hear or see it anywhere. Okay, yeah, they're televised by ESPN, ESPN2, and Fox Soccer Channel (hey, whoa, Fox has a whole channel devoted to soccer?!) but that's about it. The last sports bar I was in had maybe one or two television screens devoted to MLS. The remaining eighty-three were busy depicting the Lakers getting themselves kinged by Oklahoma City. I played soccer for four years and reffed it for two (which means that, yes, I once understood the bloody offside rule). I love soccer. Great game. But I don't feel as though I'm qualified to speak on it, not to the degree and depth that Smithy does. I think I know football gridiron a bit better, especially now that I'm following a team religiously. Smithy's already got the market cornered on soccer rants anyway.

So let's get to it, then. We had a heck of a season in San Diego last year, but there were still a few...erm...problems. We started slow, as usual. Denver beat us hollow and in Pittsburgh...well, let's not talk about that. Some of the fans stated clattering for Coach Norv Turner to be sacked. But things started picking up again as the season went on. The thing about Turner, I hear, is that he really comes through when the chips are down. The grudge match against Denver went well (32-3) and we slaughtered every NFC East team in our way, winning 18 games in a row. Our 13-3 run for the sun was tragically cut short in the last round of the playoffs, thanks to three—count 'em—three missed field goals by Nate Kaeding. New York went on to face Indianapolis and their hick quarterback Peyton Manning, a full-size poster of whom I had to stare at in middle school homeroom in Oak Ridge, when he was still playing for the University of Tennessee. Indianapolis then went on to lose against the New Orleans Saints in Super Bowl XLIV. Ha ha ha, I suppose all's well that ends well, eh?

Needless to say, some changes in the lineup were in order. The draft was back in April, but I've gotten some news that San Diego recently signed Nick Novak for a one-year contract. Don't know much about the man, myself. A Virginia native, Novak graduated from the University of Maryland, and has played for Washington, Arizona and Kansas City. He made 13 out of 20 field goals while playing for the Redskins and the Cardinals, and his average was 6-10 with the Chiefs. (That's a lot better than Kaeding's 1-4, that's for dang sure.) Novak's six feet and 198 pounds, which is a bit heavy for a kicker, I reckon, but maybe he'll be able to put a little extra meat behind his punts, who knows? Now, ostensibly, Novak has been signed to "fill in" for Kaeding, who is still recovering from a groin injury sustained prior to the 2010 Pro Bowl. Yeah, right. What a load of hogwash. I think Kaeding's groin was actually injured by the business end of a patent-leather shoe, heading straight up at about 40 miles per hour. There were about 30,000 people in Qualcomm Stadium last January who would've loved to have their foot in that shoe, let me tell you. I'll bet you anything ol' Nate won't be coming back for the 2010 season. Or if he does, he'll be third string, easy. Novak's been signed to replace him. After three missed field goals, one could hardly expect otherwise.

In other draft news, the Chargers picked up no less than twenty rookie free agents in April, from schools all over the country: Fresno State, Eastern Oregon, West Texas A&M, Southern Methodist, even Cornell! If I watched college football I'd probably know more about these guys, but I don't. Sucks having a seven-to-five job and trying to write for a living; you don't have much time for the idiot box. But I'm looking forward to seeing them all in action. The three to watch seem to be Ryan Mathews, Donald Butler, and Darrell Stuckey. Mathews is a running back from Fresno State who's got 1,808 rushing yards and 19 touchdowns to his credit. We secured him by trading picks with Miami; we got their first-round, fourth-round and sixth-round picks, while they got our first-, second- and fourth-round picks. We also traded the Dolphins our inside linebacker Tim Dobbins. To replace him, we got Butler from the University of Washington. At a hulking 245 pounds, Donald nearly racked up his weight in tackles, knocking out 238 enemy players when he was with the Huskies. Only four of those were sacks, however. Stuckey opened the third day of the draft pick. San Diego snagged him from Kansas, where he played both safety positions; but the plans are for him to play mostly strong safety. That's fine by me. Stuckey's 5'11" and 205 pounds, which makes him heavier than the free safeties we've got. But he's not too porky to move around and still get some coverage done. He has 295 tackles to his name, too, which means he must be doing something right back there.

I'll be the first to admit I don't know all the names of the players on my team. I didn't recognize Dobbins's. I don't know why I never noticed him out there, but I have a few ideas. When I'm watching a Chargers game, I'm usually too absorbed in the Holy Trinity of LaDainian Tomlinson, Darren Sproles and Philip Rivers to notice much else. Or rather, I used to be too absorbed in the Holy Trinity. Philip Rivers, our able quarterback, and Darren Sproles, Mr. Greased Lightning himself, the Artful Dodger, the un-catchable running back, are still around. For reasons I can't explain, the Chargers released Tomlinson in March. If I was to tell you that "I could crawl into a hole and shoot myself right now," you'd have to laugh and tell me to get serious, because you'd know that in order to adequately express how I feel about losing Tomlinson (to the New York JETS, for f***'s sake), I'd have to crawl into a hole, castrate myself with a rusty razor, poke out my eyeballs with sharpened Popsicle sticks, commit hara-kiri, light myself on fire with a blowtorch and then shoot myself. After nine seasons, 138 touchdowns, 12,490 yards, and more NFL records than Jesus H. Christ, LaDainian Tomlinson is no longer on my team. Excuse me, I have to go find a blowtorch.

Anyway, even with Tomlinson gone, I reckon Rivers and Sproles will still make out. With a pool of free agents that size, and a new kicker, I have high hopes for San Diego in the 2010 season. I'm depressed that we don't get to play Oakland until October, though. Those bastards are IN for it. More about that later. I'll continue checking up on the news, and if anything interesting happens I'll blog about it. We should be in the doldrums for a while, though. I'm not sure if the preseason is going to be worth covering. But even that doesn't even start until August.

So, all other things being equal, I'll see you then... Thanks for the inspiration, Smithy.

concern

One of the perks of driving from Los Angeles to San Diego on the night of the 15th was that we got to sleep in the morning after. I awoke about 8:00 or so, having slept passably well on a soft bed in an unfamiliar room with airplanes flying over all night. Honestly, it reminded me of our old townhouse back in Alexandria, Virginia. We were practically within spitting distance of Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport. Every three minutes or so, a jet plane would take off and climb into the sky with a dull, faint roar. They did that around the clock, every day of the week, morning, noon and night. I used to stretch out on my bed in my second-story room, facing west, watching these planes as they clambered into the black and starry night, lights winking merrily, their soft thunder muted by the glass windows, the distant rumble strangely comforting. Ten years later, in San Diego, these airplanes didn't wake me up. But they might have kept me from sleeping as deeply as I should have. To summarize, I didn't feel particularly rested on the morning of the sixteenth. The free continental breakfast at the HoJo closed down at nine, so Alli and I got ready and headed down there about 8:37 or so. We broke our fast on cold cereal, toast and almost-ripe fruit. We took the opportunity to pull out the map of San Diego we'd picked up at the front desk and study it. We'd chosen hotels wisely. We weren't but a few miles from SeaWorld. So, after we'd finished breakfast and checked out, we loaded up the Jeep, got on the road, made a few hectic right turns, stumped up for parking, and were walking through the park gates in the warm sunshine in less than a half-hour. I'd been to San Diego a few times before. I used to have a great uncle living down there. Uncle Joe, we called him, but his real name was Alvin. He had a two-story, bungalow-esque sort of place about 15 minutes' walk from Ocean Beach Pier. His wife, Dee, passed away some years before he did, leaving him alone in that big old house in the palm-coated hills. It was a bit sad. At least he never had to deal with any hard winters. No matter what time of year we visited him, the temperature was always a uniform 80 degrees. Sometimes it got up to 82, but that was a heat wave, Joe would say. Of course, Allison and I visited S.D. in mid-December. The temperature had plummeted to something like, I don't know, 75 degrees, with plenty of warm sunshine and a sweet, cool sea breeze. I claim to hate California, but I lovelovelove San Diego. It's one of only two places in my home state I'd actually consider living in for longer than two seconds. We paid up, ducked back to the car to deposit a few contraband items (the lady at the gate was checking bags most assiduously), and entered SeaWorld San Diego. Ahhhh, what a glorious day. See above. The place was every bit as nice as I'd remembered, if not more nicer. There were Christmas decorations strung up everywhere, as there had been at Universal Studios. The 400-foot Skytower had been hung with gigantic strands of lights and capped with a huge star, dolling it up like an enormous Christmas tree. Hymns and carols issued softly from the park's speakers, and that wonderful sea breeze kept blowing, mingling with the happy laughter of children and the sounds of rushing water. Maybe commercial entertainment ain't so bad after all. Allison and I wandered about in semi-logical fashion, doing and seeing just about everything the park had to offer. We visited the sea turtles, petted the dolphins, chuckled at the sea lions, made a fuss of the penguins, touched the sea stars, fondled the stingrays, winced at the eels, and ate all the barbecued meat and fries we could get our hands on. It was a good, good day. Shamu was in fine form, too. The last show we saw before leaving the park was the big ol' killer whale extravaganza at 2:30. It was everything I'd remembered: some jumps, some big splashes, a whole lot of oohs and aahs, and quite a few fish. Every time I go to a zoo or an aquarium, it's as if I'm seeing it for the first time. I never remember just how much is inside. We went to see the sea lion show (hence the chuckling), and whaddya know! It was abjectly different from the other one I saw before, with new gimmicks and new actors, human and pinniped alike. I'd completely forgotten about the freshwater aquarium, with its humongous bullfrogs and piranha swarms and see-through guppies. I got to pet the stingrays last time; this was the first time I'd ever petted a dolphin. THAT was COOL. They were friendly as all get-out, and swam right up to us, clicking and squeaking. They even seemed to enjoy a good pat on the head. Touching a dolphin was, somehow, even weirder than fondling a stingray. They were wet, of course, and extremely tough and rubbery, but not slimy as the rays had been. It was a fantastic experience. We happened to be standing near a zookeeper in a wetsuit, who was busy brushing away at the edges of the enclosure. He noticed what fun we were having, and introduced us personally to the dolphins who swam up (Captain and Bugs). He was friendly and knew his stuff. He even helped us call them over. It was one of the most marvelous things I've ever experienced, that's for dang sure. Another reason that we chuckled at the sea lions was this: sea lions, in fact, possess similar gender discrepancies to humans. Let me explain. We walked over to the sea lion exhibit after the show. The sea lions were separated according to sex: males in one pen and females in another. (Are female sea lions called sea lionesses? They ought to be.) Picture this: the females are getting along swimmingly. They're sleeping in heaps, perfectly free and easy with each other. Swing your head a few degrees to the left and look into the males' enclosure. You will observe the largest boy sea lion launch himself from the water and unceremoniously slap the smallest sea lion off a rock with his flipper. The smallest sea lion falls into the drink and sullenly swims off in search of a less coveted rock to lie on. Yep. That's boys and girls for you, folks. Alli and I both enjoyed ourselves immensely, but there was a tiny worry tinging my peace of mind. Allison was pretty quiet. She seemed, in fact, a little distant. I was agonizing insecurely over this perceived coolness. I honestly couldn't tell if she was just tired from all the sleep we'd missed thus far, or whether she'd soured on me in the wake of yesterday's car accident. And it was killing me. I know, I know. 'Twas stupid of me to worry. She's a good friend, after all, and had told me that she didn't hold it against me. I should've just taken her word for it. But I guess I must be more fragile inside than I like to admit. I was convinced that her opinion of me had slipped a few notches, and I was, shall we say...concerned. Next up on our to-do list: Ocean Beach. Allison had expressed a keen desire to walk on a beach, seeing as it was -16 degrees and snowing at her house. I figured Ocean Beach, with its fine sand, tidal pools, copious piles of flotsam, and huge pier (the longest on the West Coast) would suit just fine. The trick was getting there. We had to get on I-8 again for a bit, and that proved to be problematic from SeaWorld Drive. For me, anyway. As has already been proven, I'm a boneheaded driver. Despite Alli's best navigational efforts, I missed the exit, and had to come back and take another run at it. We made it the second time around, and found ourselves on Sunset Cliffs Boulevard, searching for Niagara Avenue, which lead to (and, in fact, turned into) Ocean Beach Pier. We cruised through suburban San Diego in so doing. Alli commented that, "minus the palm trees," it looked rather like her aunt's neighborhood back home. We reached Niagara and hauled right. By some amazing quirk of fate, we found a parking space. Some guy in a pickup was just pulling out as we came back down Niagara after a fruitless first run up. We parked. I paused for a moment to make a call to my insurance company; I'd meant to do it earlier, but hadn't. They'd actually been attempting to call me. The woman I'd hit had apparently already contacted her insurance company, who had gotten in touch with mine, pronto. I managed to get a hold of a living body and set up a time to get everything hashed out. Alli, decorous as ever, stepped out of the car to preserve my precious ego. I was nonetheless red-faced as I climbed out of the car to join her on the sidewalk. At this point, any reminder of the screw-up I'd committed was bound to bring my desire to turn into a pile of sludge bubbling back again. I shook it off as best I could and the two of us moseyed up the gently sloping avenue to the pier. The Pacific Ocean blossomed before us, lit by the westering sun. Shame and concern were instantly swept away in that sacred glow. The clement sea air swirled gently about us like waves on the nearby sea, washing us free of travel grime, scrubbing out souls as it passed. The palm trees swayed in that magnificent breeze. The sky was an amalgam of purple and orange, feathered with the most delicate traces of cirrus clouds. Surfers in wetsuits wobbled on boards a few hundred yards offshore; the waves clamored merrily upon the sand; young men kicked soccer balls across the beach, while an electric guitar's tinny chords filtered out a boom box; hippies and freaks of every size and description wandered up and down the sidewalks, toting guitar cases or backpacks or dreadlocks or joints, gathering here and there in groups; joggers huffed steadily along the pier; and windburned fishermen looked to their lines, standing here and there by the rails. Everywhere were young couples strolling hand-in-hand. Sailboats scudded along the horizon. I haven't been treated to a scene that beautiful in a long time. Alli and I joined this menagerie of human life, walking slowly along the pier, past the fishermen and joggers, past the restaurant, out onto the very end of the pier. There we stood, and took in the ocean and all it had to say. Seagulls and pelicans soared over the waters, and that sky kept getting more beautiful by the minute. There was hardly any need to speak. We stood there for a time, drinking it all in, wandering back and forth, snapping pictures and making comments. I remembered just how much I loved coming to this pier, even though poor old Uncle Joe had passed on. I had to admit, though, it was a million times better coming here with someone than just by myself, even if that someone had witnessed me backing into someone and then almost doing a runner. The light was dying as we walked back down the pier, down the steps, and onto the beach...but not before we'd encountered this fellow. He was nakedly interested in some of the fishermen's dividends. He was flapping from one side of the pier to the other, rail to rail, and darting furtive glances all about him, like an old man heading for the cookie jar. Our prior visit to SeaWorld had gotten us both in the mood for a little beachcombing. So we strolled across the sand, past moldering piles of kelp, to the tide pools. We hopped among them, rather like the macaroni penguins we'd seen earlier, and peered into every puddle. We didn't turn up much. We found one large, mysterious, pulsating mass half-hidden inside a conch shell, and a tiny hermit crab. We didn't mind. It was something just being down there, twilight beginning to gather, the waves resounding with the incoming tide, sailboats wending their way out upon the open sea, the sky deepening its hues with the oncoming night, and the music from that boom box drifting idly across the beach. If there's such a thing as heaven, I hope it's similar to what I've described above: serene and beautiful, with a few boom boxes thrown in. We finally packed it in, walked slowly back up the stairs, down Niagara Avenue, and back to Roger. After a brief stop for fuel, we were back on Sunset Cliffs Boulevard, looking for I-8. We found it easily...or rather, its terminus. That's right, I actually got to get on Interstate 8 right where it actually begins, just a few hundred yards from Ocean Beach, San Diego. How cool is that? I mean, people travel on interstate highways all the time, don't they? But how many of them actually get to the end? We weren't on the 8 for long. It began to get choked up, so Allison suggested we dodge north on CA-163 instead of waiting. That sounded like a good suggestion to me, so we did. Unfortunately, when we actually merged onto the 15, I missed the carpool lane. So I had to sit there in traffic for an extra 20 minutes before things finally thinned out and we got back up to speed again. (For those of you who may be unfamiliar with carpool lanes...they're these really neat highway lanes open to any vehicle with two or more passengers. They're meant to thin out traffic during rush hour, and encourage carpooling. Since I had Allison with me, I could legally use the carpool lane...only, for some reason, I kept forgetting to, which meant that I spent a LOT more time stuck in bloody traffic jams than I should have. Oh well.) Darkness fell completely by the time we made it to Corona, where we'd promised to meet Allison's cousin, TJ, for dinner. By an amazing coincidence, Allison has a cousin who works with Young Americans (a song and dance troupe) and works in Corona. (But he lives in Long Beach. Ugh, I wouldn't fancy that commute. He said he had to get up at 3:30 a.m. to make it to work by 5:30. Eee-yuck.) So she called him, and, after a lengthy discussion of our plans, finally managed to make a date with him. We had a little difficulty locating the right exit, particularly in the dark, but after a few missed approaches and wrong turns, we were sitting in the Corona T.G.I. Friday's and ready for some wholesale meeting-up. Presently, TJ and his Canadian girlfriend, Tara, came in. We rose to meet them, and spent the next two hours chatting and scintillating. We even called up Alli and TJ's aunt, Toots, who was having a birthday, and sang to her over the phone. It was one of the most interesting times I've had with a couple of complete strangers. TJ picked up the tab, too. Great guy. Must be, if he's related to Alli. And so, wearied from our two-day odyssey in La-La Land, Alli and I said our goodbyes, climbed back inside Roger once again, and headed for the open road. Traffic by this time was light. We reached home base in good stead, before the parents had retired to bed, and sacked out forthwith. My concerns about what Alli thought of me were far from fading completely. But, as I lay on my cot in the solacing dark of the family room, I thought they'd faded at least a little. That was good. I'd need all my concentration to survive what would come next...an all-nighter in the world capital of sin, vice, and dreams brought to life... ...Las Vegas, Nevada.